


(Un)Appreciated Company

by awkwardbutt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cliffhanger, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardbutt/pseuds/awkwardbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>' It was inevitable for his little patient to lose track of time again, and even more so to end up presenting himself at his stoop at odd and seemingly random hours. It was a pleasant surprise, yes, to have /this/ Will in his grasp, but it was not the best time to have this package delivered. '</p><p>A dazed Will finds his way once more to his beloved Doctor's residence, welcomed with open arms. Though Hannibal seems to already have his hands full and, with an expected and unexpected set of thoughts and events, Will discovers he may know what lingers beyond those kitchen doors.</p><p> </p><p>WARNING: This fic does not include any removing of the pants, or any other article of clothing. My sincerest apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Un)Appreciated Company

**Author's Note:**

> Written based on Charlotte's requested prompt:  
> '-How about, Hannibal is in the middle of storing his last 'shopping trip' and gets caught by Will?' 
> 
> It was a broad idea, so I went with what came to mind. I know this could have gone one of two ways- involving some hot and messy Hannigram, or...Well, what I ended up with here. It's a bit different from the average Will and Hannibal fic I know, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

 

It was still warm beneath his asperous palms, still somehow clinging to the life it had lost hours ago. It was grotesque, in the most beautiful way. Off white marbled the grainy yet smooth texture of the slab, spider webbing across the muscle and disappearing beneath the layered sections. The matte, dusty rose portions to the left of his cutting table look terribly worn out, on the other hand. The flesh is stained with watercolor blues and blacks in varying spots and splashes, ruining the supposed beauty it should have held. What a waste- already pre-smoked. It had been worth it this time though, he decided, despite the unnecessary and bothersome  injuries that had been inflicted in the process and what little physical reward he received in return. He had gained a muddled patch of purple and dull green had formed at his jaw, a few visible and unseen lesions scattered about him beneath and peaking out from his stark white button up, and a set of thin purple lines running around his neck from a more than obvious source.  Even with all that, he thought Sharon Beaumont would be a pleasure to have for dinner, even if _she_ hadn’t appreciated  the offer.

 

Hannibal had only met her for her entirety once before, in a parking lot outside his preferred grocery several blocks from his home. He had seen and heard her from afar, and already had a set-in-stone impression from dear Sharon, but attempted to disregard it seeing as they had never spoken personally. But, when they finally ended up face to face, It had been a less than pleasant experience involving a bit of a blame game directed by her alone and superfluous raising of the voice more than a few times.  She had been an inherently bright young woman of 26, with cascading champagne locks ending abruptly in a blunt line along her hips. Her eyes were a set of citrines, but with a dull glaze from perhaps years of ill intended actions and an unpalatable attitude. She always seemed to be holding a slender, lit cigarette between her full lips, flicking the ashes with little mind to her surroundings, and exhaling swirling plumes like a travelling smokestack in a pleated skirt, with little care to anyone around her. Beneath her lithe frame she was more a behemoth with a forked tongue and, for lack of a better word, a particularly distasteful personality.  Everything he observed from her seemed to be gratuitously unneeded, and was exemplified by their final encounter.

 

He ran his thumb along the dips and valleys imprinted in the meaty jewel in a strangely delicate manor, frowning at the thought of their concluding conversation that was all too similar to those he had with most every of his victims, the harsh smell of burning tobacco still fresh in his nostrils. There was little doubt in his mind as to whether she would be missed or not- she lacked a proper family or any other high social standing based on what he had hypothesized her life to be beyond the grocery. There likely would be more relieved individuals rather than rushing bodies and fliers to find this missing  dame whose final resting place would be at his dining room table.  That last meal would be put on hold, however, on to a later date. Perhaps next week she would join he and his dearest patient for breakfast?

 

As he reflected on the idea and most plausible dishes, a faint rapping sounded at his chamber door. It echoed up to the arched ceiling and resonated along the hallowed halls of the otherwise barren home, the sound harsh against the stagnant air. It wasn’t a purposeful knock, it was unsure and dazed. At this hour, who would expect it to be anything more or less than that? It wasn’t necessarily late; a few hours past his usual early dinner time. But, he imagined, perhaps this person, based on the hesitancy of their hand on his door, had been through a bit of work to get here and were thus left weary.  Hannibal hesitated at the kitchen counter, attention flickering to the somewhat peculiar sight he may have to leave in his wake. He debated for a while, if he should tidy things up or leave it be. The tapping at his door came summoning him again, and he turned on his heels with a soft sigh, quickly running his bloodied hands under the tap and heading for the door to sooth that dreadful impatiency. He did hope, whoever was calling forth his presence, wouldn’t take notice to his injuries or the staining on his clothes. It wasn’t excessive, no, but a bit out of the ordinary for someone so usually well kept- especially in the kitchen.  Fortunately, He had a name in mind when he answered the door, and was greeted by the face that held those 4 letters.

 

“Will?” Hannibal inquired, faux confusion contorting his features briefly. It was inevitable for his little patient to lose track of time again, and even more so to end up presenting himself at his stoop at odd and seemingly random hours. It was a pleasant surprise, yes, to have _this_ Will in his grasp, but it was not the best time to have this package delivered. Regardless, he wouldn’t just turn him away.

 

The man across from him was fluctuating between being responsive and dead to the world, his eyes drifting slowly from the floor, up to a stain at Hannibal’s collar,resting at his forehead for a beat, and then back to the foreground surrounding them. He regarded him in silence, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down beneath his flushed skin as he swallowed in definite uncertainty. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, gasping for air and fighting desperately to ease back to some form of sanity and awareness. All the while though, he wasn’t blubbering and respiring vehemently. He is near silent, save for his somewhat labored breathing. It is as if he is sleeping, floating in a dreamlike state- His body was unconscious but his mind was racing with familiar crime scene scenarios and personal dilemmas- all melting into one and crashing against one another in waves, while poor Will tried to get a grab hold of reality beneath those dark waters. Hannibal pursed his lips in understanding of the situation, and moved to place a reassuring hand on the perspiring shell of a being, guiding him into the assumed safety through the threshold of his residence.

 

It’s a sickeningly delightful sight to Hannibal, and he silently wished he could focus his utmost and undivided attention toward Will. He wished perilously with unadmittable, shameful desperation- But the supposed off putting tang of blood that filled his senses should be his priority. If anyone else had walked into his home, he imagined, Such as Ms. Bloom or Jack Crawford, they would have ventured immediately to the kitchen or lightly interrogated his appearance for a prolonged and awkward period. They would have found some sort of oddity with his physical presentation, or the thick, coppery smell that wafted from the doors a few feet away. He had a trilogy of valid and reasonable explanations on hand of course, but it seemed he didn’t need them for the time being. Will was blind, figuratively. He walked in a preset path to a familiar seat at Hannibal’s dining room table, loomed with hesitancy for a breath or two, then with a bit of motivation and coaxing from Hannibal, finally took a seat. Hannibal sat transversely to the bowed headed figure, and began murmuring his usual murmurs and coos, with soothing phrases and a hushed tone. It was to little visible avail as always, as Will returned his good intentions with grumbled fragments and darting eyes. His breaths had elevated a bit, ragged and frightful- the remainder of blood in the air likely wasn’t helpful. Hannibal could practically see the reflections of shadows and deformed figures dancing on the shine of his irises. Still, he was drifting on the cusp of understanding and not, seeing and not seeing. He was on the brink of awakeness, and drowning in an unhealthy mix of unconsciousness and coherency.

 

“What’s th-...What’s that with the..?” a ragged voice interjected Hannibal, hardly sounding familiar in the slightest. It sounded old and broken, strikingly so- like the tone someone would have if they had screamed for ages without break in a burning building, cloaked in clouds of ash. On the other hand, it was reminiscent of an diffident, fearful child that saw beasts creeping in the corners of his closet and beneath his bed frame. It was an odd combination of both youth and age, syllables hitching in his throat and vowels flowing out like a shallow running river.  If he hadn’t saw those lips move, he wouldn’t have pegged Will for the source. His forehead creased beneath those damp curls as he squinted at the empty air, as if that would help to find the proper wording, “Do I smell...?” It was an unfinished thought, but the doctor pressed him to complete it.

 

“Fire? If I recall, my neighbor may have lit their fire place...” He shook his head, curls clinging to his damp forehead. He was mouthing the dreaded word and offering a stuttered syllable as well as a shaky breath or two, but not being able to bring himself to say it, “Blood?” Hannibal echoed his thoughts aloud, receiving a tentative nod in reply. He glanced toward his kitchen, brows furrowed. “I did just return from a little shopping trip to the butcher; perhaps it is that?” Will’s face crumpled and flattened before him, creasing in uncertainty. He knew even beneath those layers of bubbling emotion and lost consciousness, he knew that something was off. Even if his doctor had went to the butcher, the smell would not have been that potent. He seemed to try and push it away it though, preoccupying himself with his empty nightmares and criss cross juncture of a vacillating world. Still, Hannibal’s all observing orbs caught that tinge of alertness, that mental note he took and stored away with sweaty palms and a fluttering heartbeat. He knew he knew, and he knew that he knew he knew. He didn’t know if he knew exactly what he knew, but he knew he thought he could know it, or he knew he knew it but didn’t want to know.

 

After a bit more of his usual regime provided to Will’s problematic loosing of time, he stood and moved to his side. There had been hints in the conversation, little notes scattered here and there that justified his overactive  imagination. He didn’t just use his ability at crime scenes, it seemed:

 

_“-Excuse me, Doctor Lecter, but what meat did you say you got from the butcher?”_

_“I didn’t say but, pig. Why do you ask?”_

_“The smell is particularly...potent, my apologies.”_

 

That was the first clue- After countless hours at murderous mansions and slaughtered girl’s bedrooms, he could almost always tell one blood from another even without proper training. There were more inquiries not at all  relating to his reason for wandering here. With each one, it became more obvious, and Will knew that, biting his tongue once it came to a stopping point and chewing on the inside of his cheek when receiving the answer he knew was to come. There was a mutual understanding between them, and it agitated Hannibal that he didn’t dare to outright say it. He was always the one to speak his mind, and yet when Hannibal wanted him to most he fell silent.

 

Under that iconic plaid shirt, he saw his muscles shift and ripple, and his throat tighten and loosen under the shadow of his collar. His eyes moved once, twice to Hannibal, sticking once to him before ripping away to gaze at his trousers or last button on his vest.

 

His splayed fingers wrapped about Will’s arm in a bizarre, near possessive manner.  The bespectacled man stiffened, but didn’t flinch in the slightest- He was frozen, in what was that? Fear? Confusion? Or no, perhaps sudden awareness and realization? Had he put all the pieces of this cumbersome puzzle together?  It was difficult to pinpoint what he was feeling at the moment, in a state like this. Hannibal’s flickering maroon gaze never broke hold of those sapphires that wavered with emotion from here to there, never daring to meet the man before him any farther than to the bridge of his nose or to directly between his brows. Even then, it was fleeting and soon to be averted to somewhere far beyond him. The taller of the two figures dipped down in a sudden and fluid motion, his chin grazing the other’s shirt collar and cheek lingering at his stubbled jawline. Hannibal’s features are shadowed by the overhead light, making the pair of brazen parentheses forming on either side of his taut lips frighteningly more prominent. His voice came abruptly in the muted silence, the start of the first syllable stilling the spasmodic eyes of his dear listener instantaneously. The words flowed out  in a noticeably hushed, sinful accent, burning the ears of his guest and slicing the stillness with withheld possible  ferocity.

 

_“Would you like to stay for dinner?”_

 


End file.
